Love Thieves #24:  Purity

 

 

 

Chapter 1—NC-17

 

“I love being up here.”

 

“I love being with you.” Michael kissed the nape of Nikita’s neck and wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her tight against his body.

 

Nikita smiled as her husband nuzzled her neck affectionately. Reaching out with one hand, she palmed his cheek. In response, he kissed the tips of her fingers. Breathing a heartfelt sigh, she continued to look out their bedroom window.

 

Situated in an area that was surrounded by forests and mountains alike, the chateau et environs gave its occupants the best of both worlds. Though Michael had updated it to include every modern convenience, the chateau still had an old-fashioned charm that nothing could dispel.

 

“Everything seems so simple here.”

 

“It is.”

 

Carefully disentangling herself from Michael’s arms, Nikita turned slowly to face him. “I wanted Adam to feel at home here.”

 

“Are you sorry we grounded him?”

 

“No, no, I’m sure it was the right thing to do. It’s just—the timing is so—“

 

“I know. But he’ll have the rest of the summer to put things into perspective.”

 

Draping herself over her husband’s muscular frame, she smiled faintly. “Always so sensible, Michael.”

 

“Not always.”

 

She arched a perfectly shaped eyebrow. “If that’s so, you’re holding out on me.” Sliding her knee between his legs, she pressed gently, feeling his body’s immediate response. “Mmm, you *are* holding out on me, Michael.”

 

His hands trailed down her back to cup her hips. “Like I said…not always sensible.”

 

Twining sinuously through his arms, she reached up and captured his mouth. With feline grace, she daintily licked his lips from top to bottom and side to side. “Feel like giving in?”

 

Michael swooped down on her like a bird of prey, seizing her lips between his teeth. “More like taking over,” he whispered against her mouth. Unlike her polite flicks of the tongue, he used his sharp white teeth to nip and nibble until her lips were wet and swollen.

 

“I love it when you take charge,” she chuckled.

 

In answer, he pushed her against the wall next to the window. Anchoring her there with his hands at her waist, he lowered his head to her shirt, nudging it upwards to uncover her bare abdomen. With a broad swipe of his tongue, he laved her navel, making her squirm restlessly.

 

When he raised his head to look up expectantly, she pouted. “I was admiring the view.”

 

“So am I.”

 

With a shrug, Michael turned her to face the window again. “There’s your view.”

 

She nodded absently.

 

Michael pulled Nikita’s shirt over her head, tousling her long, pale hair. He stood behind her and let his fingertips lightly graze her breasts. Her nipples shaped themselves into sharp, hard peaks, betraying her desire at once. “This is mine,” he said hoarsely.

 

She closed her eyes for a moment, whispering “What if someone sees us up here?”

 

His teeth sank into her right shoulder, provoking a sensual hiss in reaction. “It’s *our* home, doucette. We can do anything we want.”

 

Her blue eyes flew open wide, her gaze filled with amusement rather than anxiety. “We can? Okay, what have you done with the real Michael?”

 

He laughed. His hands pulling impatiently at her hair, he smoothed it back from her face and her forehead. “I want to make love to you.”

 

“I have a million things to do.”

 

“Do me instead,” he said with a half-smile, feeling light-hearted for the first time since their arrival.

 

“Now how can I refuse an offer like that?”

 

He lifted her into his arms, letting her slide down against his already aroused body. They kissed, warm, wet, open-mouthed kisses that melted away her resistance, turning her bones to water. Suddenly she was so hot, she couldn’t bear to be this close and not be part of him.

 

Their clothes fell away, and Nikita suddenly stood before him, feeling almost shy. “Love me,” she entreated, opening her arms wide.

 

“I do,” he said breathlessly, walking into her embrace. They kissed again, Michael nudging her lips apart for his tongue to gain access. As they kissed, she backed up, again and again, until her back connected with the wall. Michael slid a hand between their bodies, caressing the heart of Nikita’s femininity, finding it slick and ready. Positioning himself between her legs, he pushed his way inside, none too gently, and the way she immediately rocked against him let him know that he was not hurting her.

 

Burying his face against her neck, he tried to hold back, but couldn’t. “I love you,” he cried, his voice muffled by her hair. “So much,” he whispered over and over until it became a chant. Arching his back, he groaned as he finally spilled himself deep inside her. Seconds later, he felt the tug of her inner muscles that presaged her climax, and he tried to meet her shallow thrusts to help her over the edge.

 

“Ohh, Michael, I love you,” she managed to say softly, letting her head fall forward onto his shoulder.

 

He couldn’t tell her why, but he felt the strongest urge to stay joined with her as long as possible. Slowly lowering her to the carpet without dislodging his rapidly fading erection, he gathered her into his arms and held her.

 

They fell asleep, dreaming of each other.

 

Sometimes all we have is our dreams.

 

Sometimes it’s more than enough.

 

 

 

Chapter 2—R

 

Michael woke to the touch of his wife stroking his cheek with the back of her hand. Welcome shining brightly in his now more green than gray eyes, he smiled up at her. “Hi.”

 

“Hi.” She leaned on her right elbow and studied her husband, rubbing his chin with her thumb as she did. Michael had a little more gray at his temples, but he was essentially the same as the man she married all those years ago.

 

“What time is it?”

 

She kissed the tip of his nose, giggling when he held onto her so that he could kiss her back. “Mmm, it’s almost time to start dinner.”

 

“We slept the day away?”

 

Nikita’s blue eyes twinkled mischievously. “Not exactly. Or don’t you remember? Maybe I need to refresh your memory…”

 

“You do, and there won’t be dinner for either one of us,” he warned.

 

“Food is highly overrated anyway,” she said, planting a kiss on his lips. He opened his mouth obligingly, his arms sliding down her naked back to her hips. The fact that they were now lying on the carpet deterred neither one of them. Michael rolled onto his back, taking her with him, and she settled comfortably against him, her breasts abrading his chest.

 

She kissed him slowly, taking her time to relearn his body, and this time, Michael allowed Nikita to take control of their lovemaking. The only concession he made to his own desire was to pull her more deeply into the vee of his legs.

 

Nikita gasped as she felt the first faint stirrings of Michael’s arousal against her groin. “Ohhh, yes. Can we go slow?” she whispered.

 

“We can try,” he murmured against her lips, likening their lovemaking to a barely-controlled roller coaster ride in his mind. Sometimes he knew exactly what to expect. Sometimes he could only hope to hang on. The only thing that didn’t surprise him anymore was the intensity, no matter who initiated making love.

 

Whether he lost himself in her or she succumbed to him really never entered the equation. They were two halves of the same whole, unhappy apart, always straining to be together, and once joined, inseparable.

 

An inordinately loud knock at the door made both of them freeze, Nikita arched above him, Michael’s hand on her breast. “Is the door locked?” Nikita hissed, suddenly unsure that it was.

 

“No,” Michael replied quietly, his only concern shielding Nikita from prying eyes. He wasn’t ashamed that they were making love in the middle of the afternoon. He knew he was a lucky man. But if he ever wanted it to happen again, he would have to find something to cover their bodies with.

 

At the exact moment that Chris entered, Michael managed to snag the edge of the comforter, pulling it on top of them.

 

“Dad?”

 

Michael schooled his face into a bland expression he once favored above anything else. “Yes?” he inquired, feeling the vibration of Nikita’s giggling thrum through his chest. Her pale blonde head was under the comforter, and just to throw things further off-balance, her mouth was actively seeking one of his nipples to suckle.

 

“Can we talk?”

 

“It’s almost dinnertime. Can it wait?” Michael tried not to sound too anxious, but he could feel time slipping away from them with each passing moment.

 

Chris hid his disappointment. “Oh. Sure.”

 

Nikita’s teeth fastened around his nipple and bit at the tiny nub. “Ow!” Michael exclaimed, more in surprise than in pain.

 

Frowning, Chris asked, “Are you all right?”

 

“Fine.” Michael didn’t need Nikita’s urgent whisper to “Talk to him, Michael” to know where his priorities lay. But he had no intention of discussing *anything* with his son while his wife made love to him, no matter how carefully concealed she might be.

 

He knew what was driving her now, and it wasn’t sex. It was that sometimes capricious sense of humor that he hoped desperately had skipped a generation. Unfortunately, he could already see it beginning to develop in his oldest daughter, Faith.

 

He would have murmured to her in French, but he knew that Chris would understand every word, probably better than Nikita herself. Putting his arm around his wife’s shoulder, he hugged her. Right before he yanked her hair and pulled her out from under the comforter.

 

Circumspectly, of course. He wasn’t certain that Chris was quite ready to see his mother as a sexual being just yet, and this was hardly the time.

 

But he needn’t have bothered. Chris was every bit as aware as Faith was. He simply didn’t show it. Much like a certain former field operative.

 

Nikita’s tousled blonde head popped out from under the covers. Her blue eyes looked blurry, as if she’d been sleeping or something. Or something, Chris quickly decided.

 

‘Hi, Mom,” he said quietly.

 

Leaning on Michael, Nikita smiled. How could she be embarrassed? They had always been very open about how much they loved each other. All of the kids knew the difference between sex and true intimacy. She could only hope that someday they found loving relationships half as good.

 

“Mom?”

 

“Yes, honey?”

 

“There’s a sock in your hair.”

 

So much for not being embarrassed.

 

 

Chapter 3

 

“I’ll come back later,” Chris said in a small voice.

 

Michael nearly hurt himself trying to prevent Chris from leaving. With a hushed apology to Nikita, Michael managed to wrap the comforter around her while grabbing his shorts. “Chris, wait! If you’ll just give me a minute to get halfway dressed—“

 

Halfway across the threshold, Chris turned and nodded, his young face curiously somber. While Chris waited, Michael turned his back to don his underwear, not bothering with the rest of his clothing at the moment. Meanwhile, Nikita sat on the floor, feeling strangely discomfited now.

 

“How about if we go to your room?” Michael asked his son, attempting to give Nikita some much-needed privacy.

 

“Oh, hey, I can go into the bathroom. Honestly. It’s no problem,” Nikita blurted out in her rush to leave the two of them alone. She was sure that she knew what Chris wanted to talk to Michael about, and she wanted him to take all the time that he needed.

 

Jumping to her feet, she hurried into the bathroom, the ends of her makeshift robe trailing after her. As soon as Michael heard the bathroom door click, he gestured to Chris to sit down in a chair opposite the bed.

 

Chris sat painfully still, his back rigid, his feet planted firmly on the floor. To Michael, a man well-used to hiding his emotions behind an almost impenetrable wall of silence and negative body language, the signs of Chris’ distress were obvious. Taking a seat directly across from his son, Michael asked, “What’s wrong? Is it that you almost caught your mother and I—“

 

“God, no!” Chris exclaimed. “I interrupted you!”

 

“You knocked—“

 

“Yes, but I never should have come in. I should have waited.”

 

“We might never have heard you—“

 

Chris squeezed his eyes shut and said in a tight voice, “Uh, I’m trying not to think about that, okay?”

 

“We didn’t mean to offend you, Chris.”

 

Chris’ brilliant blue eyes flew open, and for once, Michael was grateful to see such unchecked emotion there. “You didn’t offend me, Dad. I know what you two were doing. It’s not like you were running naked through the house or something.”

 

For a moment, a slight smile curved Chris’ lips as he apparently pondered that. “Although that *would* be pretty outrageous for you, Dad. Mom, I could see. But you—“

 

Michael blinked. “I have my moments.”

 

Chris swallowed the nervous laughter bubbling up in his throat. “Daddy, are you, like, trying to make me feel better or something?”

 

If Michael knew one thing, it was that when Chris and Faith called him Daddy, something was seriously upsetting them. Leaving his chair for a seat at his son’s feet, Michael grasped Chris’ hands in his. Ice cold. He was more than a little anxious.

 

“You can talk to me about anything, Chris. You know that.”

 

Chris’ eyes glistened with unshed tears that he steadfastly refused to let fall. As he had told Nikita earlier, he was not a little boy anymore. But he couldn’t expect them to treat him like the adult he was becoming if he couldn’t handle a few tears, could he?

 

“I want to tell you something, Daddy, but—“

 

“Chris, I love you. Nothing you could say to me could ever change that.” Now Michael’s throat started to close, making him feel as though he were choking. No matter what happened,  Michael feared that intense emotion was always going to affect him this way. Just one more thing he had to thank Section for.

 

“Are y-you s-sure, D-Daddy?” Chris whispered.

 

“Yes,” Michael responded, his eyes darkening to near-black with empathetic pain for his son. His stalwart, soldier-like son who had internalized a code of honor Michael hadn’t even realized he really had. Until it showed up in his son, his would-be knight.

 

“Chris, I don’t know what it is that’s so hard for you to say, but…” Michael took a deep breath, willing the lump in his throat to clear. “…you are without a doubt the bravest young man I have ever known and—even if you weren’t my son, I would be proud of you.”

 

Chris huffed gently, a tiny “Oh” escaping him just before he dove into Michael’s arms, burying his face against his father’s neck. “I love you, Daddy.”

 

Michael heard the bathroom door open a crack and glanced out of the corner of his eye to find Nikita peering at them. He saw her rub her eyes, then gently close the door.

 

Chris mumbled something against his skin, and Michael shook his head. “What? I can’t hear you.”

 

“I said—it sounds stupid to be so worried about inheriting the chateau. I mean, I know it’s just a house.”

 

Michael brushed back the blond hair that fell over Chris’ forehead, seeing more than just a physical resemblance to Nikita in his son. “So much emotion over a house.”

 

“It’s special,” Chris protested automatically.

 

“Yes, it is. But it’s still just a house. It has nothing to do with how much I love you or anyone else who lives here.”

 

“But do you?” For the first time in several minutes, Chris met his gaze directly and with intent.

 

“Do I what?”

 

“Love me as much as him?”

 

Michael looked away first. “By him, I take it that you mean Adam.”

 

Chris nodded solemnly, his eyes wide with apprehension when Michael was able to look back.

 

“I love both of you in very different ways, Chris. Just as I love Faith and Skye and Luc.”

 

“But is it as much?” It was so unlike Chris to be visibly worried about anything that Michael’s heart went out to him.

 

“Oh, Chris…one of the great things about love is that even if you feel like you can never get enough, the people who love you never run out.”

 

“Then it doesn’t matter if he gets the chateau, Daddy,” Chris said softly.

 

Michael sighed inwardly because he knew, in his heart of hearts, that it was one of those things that *did* matter. It was the first time that Chris had lied to him. That hurt. But not because it meant that Chris was bad.

 

On the contrary, his son the altruist was trying, yet again, to assuage his father’s feelings, assuming, quite wrongly, that his half-brother was more valuable to Michael. Nothing could be further from the truth.

 

Chris tried to pull his fingers from his father’s grasp, but Michael refused to release him. “Please, Daddy, I have to go. Don’t make me stay.” Michael could see how important it was to Chris to save face. He was afraid of disgracing himself, and Michael, by giving in to the tears that threatened.

 

But in the end, he couldn’t let him go.

 

“Chris, I never dreamed that I would get the chance to have a family like this, and I never thought that I would see the chateau again. But I’ve been lucky enough to have both. Whatever legacy I leave behind, I need to leave it to someone who will appreciate it for what it’s really worth.”

 

He gathered his son into his arms and held him against his chest. “I love Adam, but Adam wasn’t raised here. He doesn’t have a feel for the land, and he doesn’t have an emotional investment in the chateau. The way I do.” Pause. “The way *you* do, Chris.”

 

Chris began to sob silently, and Michael closed his eyes against his own tears. “I didn’t realize that I needed to tell you this, Chris. But I do. The chateau and its lands will be yours when you come of age. I never thought of giving it to anyone else.”

 

His arms tightening around Michael’s neck, Chris opened his eyes and saw his mother standing in the doorway of the bathroom, crying openly. “Thanks, Mom.”

 

“Me? What did I do?” she whispered.

 

“You told me to talk to Dad.”

 

Michael blinked and smiled at Nikita before returning his gaze to their son. “I hope you’ll take pity on us and let us stay here once in a while.”

 

Chris chuckled. “Dadddd.”

 

“We’ve gotten a bit attached to the place,” he continued.

 

“Mommm, make him stop,” Chris said with a gentle laugh.

 

“Now, honey, you know no one can make your father do anything he doesn’t want to,” she replied more cheerfully.

 

“I wouldn’t say that, doucette,” said Michael, glancing at his wife.

 

With that, Chris stood up to leave. “I think this is where I came in.”

 

 

Chapter 4

 

Adam sat on the weathered wooden planks of what was known as the Wishing Bridge, his long legs dangling over the edge, seemingly lost in thought. Just when it appeared that he was almost asleep, he picked up a stone, skipping it across the water expertly before it landed with a soft plop.

 

“So how’s your first day out?”

 

Adam turned his head at the sound of another voice. “It’s okay.”

 

Chris leaned on the railing, clasping his hands together. “Where’s Jazz?”

 

“Dunno.”

 

Resigned to the fact that his half-brother was going to be uncommunicative this morning, Chris sat down next to him, winding his arms around the railing above his head. “I thought you two would be together.”

 

“Well, you thought wrong.”

 

“I just wanted to say something, that’s all.”

 

“Then say it.”

 

At Adam’s clipped tones, Chris sighed. “I’m not competing with you, y’know.”

 

“Good. You don’t have anything I want.”

 

Chris shook his head sadly. “Why are you acting like this? I don’t get it. I thought we could be friends—“

 

“You and me can never be friends, Chris. We’re too fucking different.”

 

“But we’re not,” Chris protested. “I think—well, sometimes, I think the problem is that we’re too much alike.”

 

“Right. You and I have *so* much in common.” Adam turned his head sharply, deliberately invading Chris’ space, intentionally trying to make the younger adolescent feel uncomfortable. “Do you sleep with *guys*?”

 

“No,” Chris replied with a slightly troubled look in his light blue eyes. “But I don’t have a problem with you and Jazz, Adam,” he said, refusing to be driven off.

 

“That’s nice.” Adam picked up another stone to skip across the water, but Chris grabbed his wrist and stopped him.

 

“But I think maybe *you* do.”  Adam twisted his wrist free and stared at Chris in disbelief.

 

“That’s bullshit. I’m in love with him.” Conviction rang out in Adam’s voice now. There was no possible way to doubt that declaration.

 

“I believe you.” Adam looked momentarily confused, as if that weren’t the answer he expected. “But I think you don’t know how to handle being in a relationship.”

 

“You stupid little fuck. I’m almost 17. I’ve had tons of girlfriends while you’ve never slept with *anyone*.”

 

“That’s what I mean,” Chris declared quietly. “You think sleeping with someone *is* a relationship.”

 

“Oh, why don’t you go somewhere and grow up?”

 

Continuing as though Adam hadn’t spoken, Chris said, “You’re in love with Jazz. You want to sleep with him, but you can’t.” At the beginning of what seemed to be a protest from Adam, Chris gestured, indicating that he had more to say. “We both know why. Cause you promised Dad. You like to pretend that nothing means *anything*, but we both know that’s not true.”

 

“So there you are.”

 

Adam glanced at the younger teenager before casting his sad gaze back out over the water again. “Here I am,” he murmured to himself.

 

“So how come you came out here alone?”

 

“Didn’t have a choice.” Adam skipped another stone. Chris studied his half-brother. For someone who had just come through a two-week grounding, he didn’t seem all that happy.

 

“Jazz didn’t want to be with you?”

 

The plop of the stone this time was inordinately loud. “Jazz…” Adam sighed heavily. “Jazz wanted some time alone.”

 

“He said that?” Chris’ eyebrows arched almost all the way to his hairline. “After two weeks away from you?”

 

“Yeah.” Adam’s voice was barely above a whisper. The pain went too deep for expression of anything but the merest shadow of his feelings.

 

“I can’t believe that. Jazz was hurting. Real bad. Sasha said so.”

 

Adam turned to face Chris again, angry tears standing in his dark eyes. “Sasha doesn’t know shit.”

 

“Something must be going on,” Chris concluded. He was moved by Adam’s very real anguish, but there had to be a way to deal with this—logically.

 

“Like what?”

 

“How much do you know about Jazz’ background?”

 

Adam shrugged. “Just what he told me. Not much. His mom was a dancer—“

 

“Stripper,” Chris interjected, correcting him.

 

Adam blinked at that. Maybe he *didn’t* know quite as much about Jazz as he liked to think. “She had problems—“

 

“She was an alcoholic, probably a drug user, too. She beat the crap out of Jazz from the time he was little.”

 

He knew that. Of course, he knew that about Jazz. Even though he hadn’t told him outright. It was there for anyone to see. In how he reacted. In how badly he needed Adam’s reassurance.

 

“He told me that she didn’t want him,” Adam remembered out loud.

 

Chris nodded solemnly. “That’s true. And Adam? There’s something else you should know. Especially if you’re going to sleep with him someday.”

 

“What?” Suddenly all manner of horrible things entered Adam’s tortured mind. Jazz had been beaten, abused. What more could there be to tell?

 

“Half the time he was living on the streets. He—I think he was doing guys for money.”

 

“You think? How can you accuse him of something like that without knowing for sure?”

 

“It doesn’t matter whether *I* think it’s true or not, Adam. What matters is what really happened. Only Jazz knows the truth. I’m just saying—you should ask him.”

 

Adam looked like a man standing at the Gates of Heaven with no hope of redemption. All his dreams, crushed. “I can’t ask him that,” he whispered brokenly.

 

“Cause you think he won’t tell you?”

 

Adam swallowed around the lump in his throat. “Cause I’m afraid he will.” He looked up at Chris, desolation in his eyes. “What if it’s true? What do I do then?”

 

“Why don’t you ask him?” Chris’ bright blue gaze shifted past Adam to someone just beyond the entrance of the bridge.

 

“Jazz!”

 

 

Chapter 5—NC-17

 

“I thought you wanted time alone,” Adam couldn’t help but say.

 

“I did. I do.”

 

“Then why are y—“

 

“Something came up. I—“ Jazz glanced at Chris, and the younger boy rapidly made himself scarce. “I needed to see you.”

 

“About what?” Adam’s mouth went cotton-dry as his agitated mind ran through the possibilities.

 

Jazz looked away as Chris passed him on his way back to the chateau, leaving the two of them alone. “I just—needed to see you. After two weeks without you, do I really have to have a reason?”

 

Adam’s spirits picked up. That was more like the reaction that Adam initially expected. The Jazz he knew couldn’t bear being separated from him. He laughed inwardly, telling himself that he was on one hell of an ego trip if he couldn’t live without Jazz’ obvious adoration.

 

But it was true. That came as a complete surprise to him. If there was one thing that Adam cast himself as, it was an island. Isolated. Solitary. Dependent on no one.

 

There was just one problem with that. The moment that he met Jazz, Adam knew that he needed him. He not only needed him, but in return, he needed to be needed. He blinked rapidly, trying to clear the heretofore hidden tears that flooded his eyes not long ago.

 

Pretending an indifference that he wasn’t even close to feeling, Adam asked, “So…what’s up?”

 

“This.” Jazz handed Adam a small piece of paper. Adam reluctantly unfolded it, noting that Jazz was staring at him as if he was about to disappear. “What is it?”

 

“Read it.”

 

Adam shook his head slowly. “It’s addressed to you.”

 

“I know. Read it anyway.”

 

Adam’s eyes flew to the end first. He didn’t recognize the signature. “Who’s Sylvie?”

 

Jazz looked positively haunted. “My mother.”

 

“Your—shit, I didn’t even think she was still alive. I mean, you’re here with James and Smoke—“

 

“Not for long.” Jazz’ whisper was a tortured remnant of his normal voice.

 

Adam nearly dropped the note. “What the Hell does that mean?”

 

“What do you think?”

 

“But you said she didn’t want you. You said—“

 

Jazz’ eyes turned dark, the color of the moss growing near the stream that ran beneath the bridge. “She didn’t. She still doesn’t.” There was resignation there. Acceptance, too. Jazz wasn’t fighting anymore, and that scared Adam to death.

 

“I don’t understand.” Adam could feel a terrible numbness creeping over him. Its name was inevitability.

 

“She smells money.”

 

“From where?”

 

“I never knew my real Dad.” Jazz twirled a long golden brown strand of hair around two fingers, anxiously winding and unwinding it. Again and again and—Adam thought he would go mad. Finally he reached out and clamped a firm hand over Jazz’ wrist. At first, Jazz looked somewhat startled. Then all at once Jazz’ all-too-expressive eyes reflected Adam’s sadness.

 

“I thought he was just some guy. A one-night stand. A boyfriend. What difference did it make?” Jazz looked down at Adam’s hand, wishing with all his might that things could be different.

 

“All this time, he never knew I existed.”

 

Adam released Jazz abruptly. “And now?”

 

“And now he does.” Jazz’ face held a curious mixture of anger and sorrow.

 

“How do you f-feel about that?” Except for the tiniest stammer, Adam managed a noncommittal tone that rivaled his father at his best.

 

“I don’t know.”

 

“Is he going to take you away?” From me, Adam’s mind automatically filled in.

 

“Oh, I’m pretty sure *he* doesn’t want to have anything to do with me either,” Jazz commented bitterly.

 

“Why?”

 

Now that Adam had relinquished his grip on his wrist, Jazz found himself restlessly playing with his hair again. “He’s married. With kids of his own. Nice kids. Respectable. Not dirt like me.”

 

Part of him felt relieved. But almost immediately afterwards, he felt guilt-stricken for even thinking that he was happy because Jazz’ father didn’t want him. “You’re not dirt, Nicky,” Adam reassured, the pet name slipping out unconsciously.

 

“Doesn’t matter. Mama’s fixing to make a major score now. She thinks he’ll pay, bigtime, to keep his secret safe.”

 

“And will he?”

 

“Hell, yes. If you were rich and you had everything, would *you* want everyone to know about *me*?”

 

Jazz stared directly into Adam’s eyes, as if daring him to disagree. But Adam met them evenly without a single flinch. “God, you have no idea how much you’re really worth, do you?” he whispered.

 

Suddenly Jazz turned away, unable to face the open reverence in those dark eyes. “Anyway, I just came by to—um—say goodbye.”

 

“What?”

 

“Don’t worry, you’ll get over me. Good thing we never like, um, made love or anything.”

 

“Yeah. Good thing,” Adam echoed without thinking, the numbness rapidly evaporating, leaving unreasoning rage in its wake.

 

“You stupid little fucker!” Adam shouted. At the sound of Adam’s angry yell, Jazz instinctively cringed, and memories of all the people who claimed to love him but didn’t flooded his mind.

 

When Adam saw how Jazz reacted, he was stricken to the very core. How dare he treat Jazz like this was his fault? How dare he heap more abuse on the head of someone who defied the odds to survive? Here he was, seeing things only in terms of how they effected him. This wasn’t about *him*.

 

In that moment, Adam saw things with a greater clarity than he ever had before. Ignoring the fact that Jazz was trying desperately to get away, Adam threw his arms around the younger teenager and held him, rocking from side to side in an effort to calm him down. “Ssh, ssh, I’m sorry, so sorry.”

 

Jazz lay his head on Adam’s shoulder, the tension ebbing away as though it were never there. “You don’t know how hard it was for me to stay away…and then to come here.” His fingers anxiously twining their way through Adam’s shaggy dark brown hair, he closed his eyes, wishing he could just stay there and feel protected.

 

“I didn’t mean to make it worse.”

 

Jazz buried his face in the space between Adam’s neck and shoulder. “No, you’re the only one who can make it better.”

 

“We can’t,” Adam said with very real regret.

 

“And now we never will,” Jazz replied.

 

All thoughts of Jazz’ past life on the streets flew out of Adam’s head. Nothing and no one mattered but the two of them. If it didn’t happen between them, it didn’t exist. Jazz did what he had to—to survive. How could he not see that before?

 

Jazz’ fingers tightened on Adam’s neck as he hid his face. “All that time—that I was on the streets—I kept feeling like I was waiting for something or someone. And now you’re here.”

 

It took a few moments to penetrate, but when it did, Adam’s shock was apparent. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying, Nicky?”

 

Jazz wrenched himself reluctantly from Adam’s embrace, certain that this last secret between them would be their undoing. With a trembling finger, he traced the outline of Adam’s lips. “Yeah. I walked the walk and talked the talk, man, but when it came right down to it, I—“ Jazz took a deep breath. “I’m a fucking liar.”

 

“No,” Adam protested.

 

“Yes,” Jazz insisted.

 

“Then you’ve never—“

 

Jazz shook his head, his long, straight golden brown hair swinging back and forth. “They always wanted to touch *me* and—and—I let them. But I never went—“

 

“All the way?”

 

Jazz breathed in so suddenly, so sharply, that Adam was startled. At first, he thought it was fear, but then he realized that it was something else. Jazz wanted Adam to think the very best of him, and in his own convoluted way, Jazz was afraid that Adam would be disappointed in him. For not being the jaded punk he sometimes seemed to be.

 

“Nicky, if you told me that you were with a million guys before me, I would hate it. But I would find a fucking way to deal with it. Cause I *love* you.”

 

Adam stroked Jazz’ face, his thumb tenderly rubbing across his left eyebrow before it traced its way down his hairline. Somehow he needed to make Jazz know that as explosive as these feelings between them could get, it wasn’t  *all* about sex.

 

“And now, knowing that someday, I get to be the one who makes love to you? I may not be very good at telling the people I love that I care—but I do. I *love* you.”

 

“And Nicky?” Adam knew he had Jazz’ full attention now.

 

“We *will* be together.”

 

 

Chapter 6—NC-17  (violence, language, adult content)

 

Jazz could almost forget that today was the darkest day of his life. Almost. He had Adam at his side and life felt possible once more.

 

Swinging their entwined hands between them, the young couple walked unhurriedly up the driveway towards the cottage at the edge of the Chateau’s grounds. Pausing only a moment or two to kiss, they reluctantly separated.

 

“We’ll get through this, Nicky,” he reassured the younger teenager.

 

Jazz leaned forward, his forehead touching Adam’s all too briefly. “You keep telling me that, man. Maybe then I’ll believe it.”

 

Suddenly James appeared at the door, clearly waiting for Jazz. His face a careful blank, nevertheless James’ deep blue eyes were grave. “Come inside,” he said softly.

 

“What’s wrong?” Jazz asked, willing himself not to start trembling.

 

James looked at Adam for a moment, as if enlisting his aid, then repeated what he just said. “Come inside.”

 

Jazz began to move, but Adam caught him by the wrist, stopping him. “Hey.” With an equally surreptitious glance at James, Adam abruptly wrenched the younger adolescent into his arms for a fierce embrace. His mouth buried against Jazz’ ear, Adam whispered, “Don’t forget that I love you.”

 

As Jazz stepped back, his fingertips clung to Adam’s  for a brief second before breaking  away. Nodding without saying another word, James went inside the little house.

 

How long Adam stood there unmoving, he might never be sure.

 

***

 

It was easily his worst nightmare come true. Some children, no matter how badly abused, might long to see their parents again, either to set things right, or to wreak vengeance upon them. Sometimes those two things were the same.

 

“Jazz!” His mother hadn’t changed a great deal. Oh, she was cleaner, if only in the most superficial sense of the word. But he doubted that she was sober. Sylvie simply wasn’t that motivated.

 

She held her arms out to him, but he couldn’t make himself go to her. From time to time he thought of her, the picture always the same. She was apologetic. She was caring. She was—

 

--completely out of character.

 

“Jazz,” she purred, “all that trouble between us is over now. Come with me. I can introduce you to your real father.”

 

For a price, Jazz added mentally. He shook his head sulkily.

 

“Please?”

 

“No.”

 

“No?” Sylvie turned to face James, her hands on her hips. “What kind of lies have you people been feeding him?” she asked sharply.

 

“You people? They’re not “you people”, Mama. They’re the same as me.”

 

She swung around rapidly, her index finger punctuating the air with deadly stabs. “You don’t talk back to your mother! Pack your things!”

 

“I won’t! You can’t make me!” Jazz shouted.

 

Sylvie pulled her clenched fist back to hit Jazz, and the fourteen-year old ducked and closed his eyes, waiting for the blow to fall.

 

It never came.

 

When Jazz opened his eyes, Smoke was standing just behind Sylvie, his hand gripping her wrist. “I won’t let you hurt him. Ever again.”

 

Sylvie narrowed her eyes and spat in Smoke’s face. Smoke never flinched. “You want to fight dirty, Sylvie? You’d better think about it real hard.”

 

“You forget. I know you, Smoke. You wouldn’t hit a woman.”

 

“In your case, I’d make an exception.”

 

“You’re all bluff.”

 

“Try me.”

 

Sylvie and Smoke stood nose-to-nose, glaring at one another. Stalemate.

 

“I’m not going to argue with a faggot.”

 

Smoke regarded her with considerable equanimity. “Good.”

 

“You want to hit me, though, don’t you?”

 

“You have no idea,” he managed to snarl without raising his voice at all.

 

“Bet you couldn’t knock me out if you tried, pussy boy.”

 

“You’re probably right,” he agreed.

 

“But you want a chance to try, don’t you, you precious little fag?”

 

“Mama. Stop!” Jazz’ fervent plea did not go unnoticed.

 

Like a woman possessed, Sylvie whirled around, her voice a pitiable growl. “I told you not to call me that, you filthy twat!” Suddenly she began to cackle wildly. “I don’t know why you’re defending him! He’s not even a *real* man! Is *that* what you want to be when you grow up?” she snorted derisively.

 

Jazz didn’t care what she called him. But when she started taking Smoke apart, something in him snapped. All this time, he had been holding himself in a kind of limbo, conflicted between hating what Sylvie represented and caring what she thought, simply because she was *still* his mother. But when she crossed that line, when she stood there, starkly revealed for the person she really was, his conflict was no more.

 

He’d never seen it as a showdown between Sylvie and Smoke before. He’d never seen that there was a choice to be made. Once and for all.

 

In the heartbeat that it took to register her derision, Jazz threw himself in front of Smoke, visibly taking a stand, overtly making that choice.

 

“I hope someday I’m *half* the man that he is!” he shouted, throwing his arms open wide in a protective manner that encompassed as much of Smoke’s slender frame as possible.

 

“My, you *are* an ambitious little fag, aren’t you? Or you would be, if *he* was any kind of a man! Why, *I’m* more of a man than he is!”

 

When Sylvie took a step towards him, Jazz unconsciously backed up. Only Smoke’s firm grasp of both his shoulders stopped him. “I won’t let her hurt you,” Smoke whispered to him.

 

“Such devotion,” she purred. “Is that why you’re so attached to him, Smoke? Are you fucking him?”

 

The sound of the slap echoed loudly in the silence that followed Sylvie’s accusation. James, heretofore standing quietly, even numbly, on the sidelines, watched this woman tear apart everything he held dear until he just couldn’t bear anymore.

 

“How dare you touch me!” Sylvie hissed.

 

“Get out,” said James, over the lump in his throat.

 

“Not without Jazz,” she countered. “I’m taking him out of here right now.”

 

“Over-my-dead-body,” James intoned slowly but emphatically.

 

“You can’t do this! I’m his mother!”

 

“Only by a terrible accident of birth,” Smoke said, wrapping his arms protectively around Jazz.

 

“Jazz! Honey! You know I didn’t mean it! Come with me, baby!”

 

Jazz’ bright eyes had gone dark long ago. With remembered pain. Now they filled with tears and fresh pain. “No, Mama,” he whispered.

 

Smoke’s fingers tightened, digging into Jazz’ chest, reminding him that he was there. Thank God. Thank God that he had found him that day.

 

“I won’t leave without him,” she declared mutinously to no one in particular.

 

James reached for her. “Oh, yes, you will.”

 

“Who’s going to throw me out? You?” she sneered. “You haven’t got the guts.”

 

Suddenly there was an unexpected voice coming from the direction of the front door. Leaning against the interior threshold, arms folded casually in front of her, was Derry. “But I do.”

 

Sylvie blatantly looked the younger woman up and down, acting as though she found her lacking both the wit and the strength to take her down. “Really.”

 

“Aye, really. But if you don’t believe me, you can ask my husband,” indicating the large man coming up behind her.

 

“We’re just next door in the gatehouse, guys. You couldn’t call?” Davenport asked rhetorically, an anticipatory grin cutting across his handsome face.

 

Sylvie started edging toward the door, thinking to dart through quickly, but Derry reached out and tapped her on the shoulder. “Going somewhere?”

 

“I have a friend waiting for me outside. He’ll take care of you two,” Sylvie said, hoping that it was true.

 

“Oh, you mean this little guy?” Davenport pulled a seedy looking young man through the door, his hand on the scruff of his neck. “This weasel was lurking around outside. Thought he was a thief.”

 

“Lemme go,” said the apparent burglar, struggling to get away. “I’m calling the police.”

 

“I don’t think so.” Davenport was his usual unshakably calm self, which greatly reassured the rest of them. Except for Derry. Being a force to be reckoned with, she didn’t need any reassurance.

 

Derry stabbed a finger into the would-be robber’s chest. “You can deal with the police or you can deal with us, boyo.” She looked up at her husband, a curious glint in her silver-grey eyes. “Y’know, if someone gave *me* that choice, I think I’d take the police, too. We’re too bloody dangerous,” she said with a chuckle.

 

Sylvie squawked as if on command. “He’s my boyfriend. Please don’t hurt him.”

 

“You stupid bitch. You can’t do anything right. You just couldn’t stick with the plan, could you? It was so simple, just grab the kid and go.”

 

He would have hit Sylvie, but for the arms restraining him. Still Sylvie jumped back accordingly. “You bastard!”

 

Derry shook her head, her chestnut brown hair waving about her shoulders. “They seem made for each other, Jake. I think we should let them go and have at it.”

 

Davenport thrust the man through the doorway with ease. Derry had to use a bit more force on the recalcitrant Sylvie. “Don’t come back here.”

 

“You can’t tell me what to do, bitch.” Sylvie would have lunged at Derry, but Davenport held onto her shoulder in what could only be described as an approximation of the Vulcan nerve pinch.

 

“We don’t expect to see you again,” Davenport added for good measure.

 

“You can’t keep me away from my son.”

 

“You could always get a lawyer.”

 

Sylvie paled. She couldn’t risk going to court. She had a record. She was lucky to be out of jail right now.

 

“No, no, it’s, um, okay. I can see that Jazz is in, um, good hands.” Her complete about-face surprised no one, including Jazz. If his mother knew how to do one thing and do it well, it was to survive.

 

There were several seconds of utter chaos after Sylvie and her boyfriend left. But things did anything but settle down. Davenport demanded an explanation, and James assured him that he would get one. As soon as he figured out what it was.

 

When James and Smoke were alone with Jazz, James noticed right away that Smoke was reluctant to let go of him. “Pete, it’s okay. They’re gone.”

 

Smoke unwound his arms, but Jazz clung to them. Jazz’ anguished, “Don’t leave me, please,” convinced James that both Smoke and Jazz needed a bit more than reassurance.

 

Gathering both of them into an expansive embrace, James murmured to Smoke, “Hey, we made it.”

 

“This time,” said Jazz, uncertain that his mother would give up.

 

A chill settled over the room.

 

***

 

But though Sylvie and her boyfriend fought all the way back to the alleyway that seemingly spawned them, Jazz was no longer a real concern. Sylvie was more afraid of going back to jail than anything else, so Davenport and Derry’s warnings hit their mark.

 

But the plan that Sylvie’s boyfriend hatched as a quickie get-rich scheme did not die there. Sylvie had already contacted Jazz’ father.

 

That was the problem with loose ends.

 

 

Chapter 7

 

Jazz stared at his plate, his eyes unseeing. Smoke apprehensively watched the teenager whom he had claimed as son. Chewing on his lower lip, Smoke cocked his head and asked, “Not hungry?”

 

At the unexpected breaking of the silence that stretched between them, Jazz flinched. That sole gesture told Smoke more than words. Jazz was living on the edge of his nerves. Ever since Sylvie left.

 

He couldn’t blame the adolescent for not being sure that Sylvie wouldn’t double-cross them somehow. It fit the whole pattern of his upbringing. Always sold to the highest bidder.

 

“Would you like me to make you a sandwich instead?” Now Smoke was being overly solicitous and he knew it. The almost fifteen-year old was perfectly capable of making himself something to eat. If he was hungry. It was obvious that he wasn’t.

 

“No,” Jazz murmured, more out of politeness than anything else.

 

“Would—“ It hurt to ask this, but Smoke would do anything, anything at all, to bring some kind of peace back into Jazz’ young life. “If you can’t talk to me, would you talk to Adam?”

 

“No!” This time it was Smoke’s turn to jump at the sudden explosion of sound coming from Jazz. “I mean, shit, Pete, if I talked to *anyone*, it’d be *you*, okay? I just can’t—“

 

“I understand,” Smoke said softly.

 

“Do you?” Jazz squinted hard at Smoke, as if he were having trouble bringing his adoptive father into focus. “I’m not sure *I* do. I never used to care if I pissed her off before. But all of a sudden, I was so—“ Jazz choked on the next word, fear or some deeper emotion threatening to claw its way out of his throat.

 

“What?” Smoke prompted gently.

 

Jazz’ pupils dilated, turning his vivid green eyes darker than Smoke had ever seen them. “I thought she was going to take me away. I thought—oh, God—“ Jazz tried to turn his face away, but Smoke cupped his chin, making further movement impossible.

 

“What, m’ petit?” Smoke’s French was slurred by the emotion wrapping itself around his tongue, but his meaning was clear. It was an endearment of sorts, the kind a father would bestow upon his son.

 

All at once Jazz looked as though he would burst into tears. “I thought I would never see you again, okay?” It sounded as if the words were dragged from somewhere deep within him.

 

“And that mattered to you?”

 

“Don’t you get it? I’m more your kid than I ever was hers!” Aghast at how much he had revealed, Jazz struggled to leave the kitchen table, but Smoke’s grip on his arm was too strong.

 

“Come ‘ere,” Smoke commanded.

 

Jazz hesitated, but Smoke took advantage of that second to pull the teenager into his arms. Wrapped tightly in Smoke’s embrace, Jazz gave up trying to fight his feelings and lay his head on Smoke’s shoulder, his long golden-brown hair falling into his eyes.

 

“I’m not a little boy,” Jazz declared mutinously.

 

“Of course not,” Smoke agreed, refusing to relinquish his hold on him.

 

“I’m almost fifteen.”

 

“I know.”

 

“You rescued me,” he whispered to the older man. “You’re *still* rescuing me.”

 

Smoke pressed a kiss to Jazz’ hair and sighed. “She can’t have you back. You’re too important to me.”

 

“Me? Important?” Jazz sniffled and hid his face once more.

 

“I love you. I always have.”

 

“Me, too, Pete.”

 

For the longest time, they were content to stay that way. When Smoke looked up, however, he saw his partner, James, hovering expectantly in the doorway. His expression looked every bit as grim as it did the day that Sylvie Verlaine dared to come to the Chateau.

 

“Jamie? What is it?”

 

Jazz couldn’t help but ask, “Is it Mama?”

 

James shook his head slowly. As if he were considering what words to choose, he paused. “It’s not her.”

 

A tall, distinguished-looking gentleman in his late forties appeared behind James. “It’s me.”

 

“Who are you?”

 

“I’m your father.”

 

 

Chapter 8

 

“You have my mother’s eyes.”

 

Jazz blinked without speaking. As hungry as he was for knowledge about his background, he was loath to put his faith in this man. He didn’t want to get hurt again.

 

The man cleared his throat, seemingly nervous despite his elegant attire and his initially poised demeanor. “My name is Philippe Deveraux,” he offered by way of introduction, extending a hand to Smoke.

 

Smoke glanced quickly out of the corner of his eyes at James before shaking the older man’s hand. For a moment, Smoke was at an understandable loss for words. What could he say? Pleased to meet you? He wasn’t that big on hypocrisy. My pleasure? It was hardly that.

 

In the end he simply settled for his name. “Pierre Sideau.”

 

James met Smoke’s eyes, curious as to why his partner chose to use his real first name. Smoke’s bland affect told James that he was gathering strength from wherever he could, no matter how unlikely the source.

 

Deveraux nodded and broke off the handshake. Sensing that he was not going to get very much information from Jazz himself, Deveraux  spoke directly to Smoke. “You’re probably wondering why I’m here.”

 

Oh, yeah, that was the number one question that was on *everybody’s* mind. Smoke cautiously instructed himself to relax, consciously forcing his hands, which had somehow become fists, to uncurl. “Actually, yes,” Smoke replied, wondering where on Earth he found the noncommittal tone.

 

“This doesn’t have to be hostile, you know.”

 

Smoke didn’t know why, but he resented Deveraux pointing that out to him. “Of course not.”

 

Deveraux, who clearly owed his good looks as much to genetic advantage as to old money, pondered. His hair was far darker than Jazz’, his almond-shaped eyes the color of aged brandy. There was little physical resemblance between Jazz and his biological father, though there was some indication of his Asian heritage in both his eyes and his skin tone. “Why don’t we start at the beginning?”

 

“Why don’t we start with why you’re here?” Smoke countered, this time unable to prevent the wave of bitterness that surged through him from erupting close to the surface, where it could be easily seen.

 

At the exact moment that James was readying himself to break up a potential fight, Jazz interjected, “Why’s my name Verlaine then? Huh?”

 

“That’s your mother’s name.”

 

“Guess I wasn’t good enough to be a Deveraux,” Jazz muttered under his breath, but both Smoke and Deveraux heard him.

 

“I didn’t know about you when you were born. Otherwise, you would certainly have my name.”

 

“But not a place in your family, right?”

 

“Things are—complicated. There are things you wouldn’t understand, Nicolas.”

 

Jazz’ eyes narrowed as he contemplated his father. “Don’t call me that!”

 

“Why ever not? It’s your name, isn’t it?”

 

“My name’s *Jazz*.”

 

His father’s lip wrinkled slightly, but whether from distaste or from Jazz’ tone, it was hard to tell. “I was like you once.”

 

“I doubt that,” Jazz snorted, folding his arms across his chest. His whole body looked tense yet fragile, like a strong gust of wind might knock him over and break him, scattering the pieces to the air like so many leaves.

 

“I *was*,” Deveraux insisted.

 

“Really? You were gay?” Jazz asked rhetorically, his voice now dripping with contempt.

 

If he was hearing this for the first time,  Deveraux took the news surprisingly well. “No, I wasn’t,” he answered, treating Jazz’ query as a legitimate question. “But I was wild and full of myself.” His smile was tinged with chagrin. “A condition that sadly lasted until I was well into my twenties, I’m afraid.”

 

“Yeah, well, being gay’s not something you get over.”

 

“You sound like you’ve tried.”

 

Jazz’ eyes went wide. “Do I look self-destructive to you? It’s not a disease; it’s part of who I am.”

 

“I see.” Deveraux lowered his head, making it all but impossible for Jazz to see his eyes, which frustrated him no end.

 

“So—how’s the wife?” Jazz asked impertinently. Smoke was close enough to touch him, but he didn’t dare. He was terribly afraid of this man. He wore power like an expensive suit, and Smoke was convinced that if there were a way, Deveraux would take Jazz with him.

 

“Are you curious about the rest of your family?”

 

Jazz shook his head. “They’re not my family. *This* is my family,” he indicated James and Smoke with a wave of his hand.

 

“What about Sylvie?”

 

Jazz’ expression never changed. “What about her?”

 

“She thought she could extort money from me by threatening to tell my wife and my children about you.”

 

“So? That’s between you and her, man.”

 

“It doesn’t make you angry that your own mother wanted to use you as some kind of perverted bargaining chip?”

 

“Who are you calling perverted, old man?” This time Smoke did move to hold onto Jazz, ostensibly to comfort him. In truth, Smoke feared losing him and wrapping his arms around the boy he considered *his* son was almost symbolic. He wondered if Deveraux would even notice.

 

Ignoring Jazz’ last comment, Deveraux said, “I wish I could offer you a home with me, son. Take you away from all this—“

 

“All what?” Jazz was furious. No one was going to make his decisions for him. He was almost fifteen. If he had to, he would run away before he would let his so-called father take him from James and Smoke. But then, he thought with a frown, wouldn’t that defeat the whole purpose? Then no one would win. Not even him.

 

“What do you know about my life with Mama? What do you know about trying to survive on the streets? Your idea of being *wild* was probably getting drunk on Saturday night.”

 

“No,” the older man intoned solemnly, “it involved fathering an illegitimate child on a whore.”

 

Jazz would have struck him, but Smoke’s grip on him was too tight. Sylvie was a terrible, evil woman, but she was his mother. No one had more right to hate her than he did. But this supercilious bastard had no right to denounce her to Jazz’ face.

 

James’ lower lip curled in disgust as he moved closer to his partner and his adoptive son. “You are *some* piece of work,” he growled.

 

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

 

James enlightened him. “I thought that you came here for a tearful meeting with the son you never knew you had. I thought that you genuinely regretted not being able to raise him. And last but not fucking least, I thought that if you couldn’t offer him a home, you would throw outrageous amounts of money around, to compensate and to assuage your guilt.”

 

“Ah, you were expecting a big payoff? How much *do* you make, Mr. Elliott, on your teacher’s salary?” For some reason, James flinched as if he had been physically assaulted. There was something about the way Deveraux saw them. Or did he see them? Maybe they were simply too far beneath him for him to register their presence.

 

James refused to sacrifice his dignity on the altar of Deveraux’s discontent. “I’m sure you already know more about me than I’ll ever know about you,” he stated coolly.

 

Deveraux smiled.

 

That smile changed everything. James eyed the older man with a venomous glare. “Seems to me that you don’t like Jazz *or* us. Too bad. You gave up your right to care a long time ago. Maybe you should have considered the consequences of where you put your dick sixteen years ago when it might have mattered.”

 

“Jamie!” Smoke cried out. James might be right, but it was hardly a politically sane move to make at this point. They were at a disadvantage; they should be begging Deveraux to let them keep Jazz, not antagonizing him.

 

Deveraux chuckled. “I would love to take Nicolas home with me, but he just—wouldn’t fit in.”

 

James opened his mouth to say something, but Smoke punched his upper arm. Hard. It wasn’t a gentle reminder.

 

“But I’ve never been one to shirk my responsibilities so I will set aside a yearly allowance for him until he comes of age.”

 

I’m not touching it, Jazz thought to himself. This wasn’t love. Or even affection. It wasn’t even a business deal. It was an obligation to be met and dealt with. He could almost see his father making a little checkmark next to Jazz’ name on his Things To Do list.

 

“And once he’s of age?”

 

Deveraux shook his head at their naiveté. “Why, he’s on his own, of course.”

 

“No inheritance? No name change? Don’t you even want to claim him as yours?”

 

The gentleman in appearance only shrugged. “I came out of curiosity. I’m satisfied. If you wish to adopt him, I won’t protest.”

 

James was simmering. Smoke could tell by the heat in his deep blue eyes. Willing him to see this as an opportunity rather than a disaster, Smoke rubbed James’ shoulder. When James didn’t speak, Smoke took that as acquiescence and ran with it.

 

Addressing Deveraux directly, Smoke said politely, “Thank you.”

 

“You’re welcome.”

 

When Deveraux left, James turned to Smoke and hissed, “Why didn’t you let me take him apart?”

 

“Cause he left the way open for us to adopt Jazz!”

 

Jazz looked from James to Smoke and back again. “Guys, guys, don’t fight about me. I’m not worth it.”

 

Smoke kissed his cheek and ruffled his hair affectionately. “Jazz, I know this seems like the worst possible time to ask this, but would you even consider—“

 

“You want me to be your son? For real?”

 

James put his arm around Smoke’s shoulder and leaned on his partner. Those were real tears in Jazz’ eyes, but this time they weren’t tears of pain. They were—

 

--tears of joy.

 

 

Chapter 9

 

Michael walked softly to the bedroom windows and threw open the latch. Definitely master of all he surveyed, sometimes he could hardly believe that all of this, the chateau and its lands, belonged to him. He leaned forward on his arms, the early morning breeze already warm on his handsome face, foretelling a brand new day.

 

He felt her presence behind him. Without turning to look, he whispered, “I hope that I didn’t wake you, doucette.”

 

She slid her cheek along his bare back and sighed contentedly. As she wrapped her arms around his waist, she leaned heavily on him, enjoying the feel of his skin against hers. “Mmm, no. I just missed you lying next to me.”

 

He smiled, though she couldn’t see his expression. “Did you ever wake up and think, Today is going to be special?”

 

“Every day I wake up with *you* is special, Michael,” she murmured huskily, the vibration of her voice against his skin vaguely erotic.

 

He knew he wasn’t making all that much sense. He wasn’t articulate at describing his feelings. Not like some of the others. Even after all these years away from Section. “It’s like…we’re starting over. Like this is the first day of the rest of our lives.”

 

She kissed a spot in the middle of his back before reluctantly releasing him. “That was beautiful, Michael. I dunno why you think you don’t have a way with words. You do.”

 

“On a page, doucette. When I can think about what I need to say.”

 

“Always underestimating your own talents, love.”

 

He turned to face her, a trace of the smile remaining. He reached out with his thumb and caressed her right eyebrow, as always making her feel like a well-cosseted feline. “I’m good at this.”

 

“Mmm, yes, you are,” she said, her light blue eyes sliding shut. Her mouth found his thumb and engulfed it.

 

He was instantly hard. He fought his thumb for her mouth, his tongue nudging her lips apart. With one kiss, he disarmed her for she was defenseless against this reflection of her own love. “I love you, doucette.”

 

“Oh, Michael, sometimes I think if we couldn’t be together, I wouldn’t be able to go on.”

 

“Ssh, ssh, Kita. You’ll never have to find out,” he whispered, his mouth brushing her ear. “I’ll always be right here.”

 

Her arms wound their way around his neck as she buried her face against his shoulder. “I love you.”

 

“No tears, doucette. Not today.”

 

She nodded silently, her cheek rubbing against Michael’s shoulder. No tears, she echoed inwardly. Not today.

 

Why was their love always tinged with this bittersweet sensation? Was it regret for all they’d left behind? Hardly. Was it because deep down Nikita believed that they had narrowly snatched their love from the jaws of the Section beast, and they were living on borrowed time? That was part of it.

 

Nikita was convinced that, as happy as they were, they could not have *forever*. Forever was a word that Declan bestowed on Birkoff with an ease that made her uncomfortable. There was always something dark, something hidden, something waiting expectantly around the corner in the world they inhabited.

 

But that didn’t mean that they couldn’t try. For what was the alternative but to give in, give up, and get out.

 

All of this and more passed through her mind at the speed of light. But she said nothing.

 

Nothing except “I love you, Michael.”

 

It meant so many things. It meant everything. It meant the most important thing of all.

 

And Michael understood.

 

 

Chapter 10

 

“Please?”

 

“I said I’ll think about it.”

 

“That’s what you always say when you really mean no.”

 

“If I meant no, I would say no. Now shoo.”

 

“All the other kids get to—“

 

“You’re not other kids.”

 

“I wish I was.”

 

“No, you don’t.”

 

“Yeah, I do.”

 

“You’re entirely too precocious for your own good, you know.”

 

“What’s perkoshus?”

 

“It means that you’re getting too big for your britches.” With that, Nikita ruffled her youngest son’s hair before patting him on the behind.

 

Luc glared at his mother, his eyes so like his father’s that it made Nikita pause. Of all of the children, and she was certainly not playing favorites, she had a soft spot in her heart for Luc. He looked so much like Michael.

 

She often wondered what Michael was truly like before Section. Before he was recruited into L’Heure Sanguine. She pictured him at Luc’s age in her mind’s eye. Quiet. Serious. Well-spoken. Her lips curved into a mischievous smile. Not at all like Luc then.

 

Oh, Luc had his moments. But he was a virtual whirlwind, frequently leaving the others trailing in his wake. His mind was so agile. He definitely got that from Michael. He was creative. He saw possibilities where no one else did. His imagination stood him in good stead. And yet, he loved science, embracing its structure and logic with a fervor that Nikita found almost contradictory.

 

Studying Luc’s mutinous stance, she sighed. She hated to set a precedent like this. But there *were* exceptions to every rule. And she *did* rather hate rules, no matter how useful they could be.

 

“Luc?”

 

His look said, What the heck do you want now, Mom? But Luc was ever the practicing politician, even at five. “Yeah, Mom?”

 

“If I say you can go—“

 

“Yippee! Yayyyy! You’re the best, Mommy!” Luc wasted no time at all in dancing around Nikita’s legs, suddenly looking more like a leprechaun than a boy.

 

“I said *if*, Luc.”

 

Luc’s happy dancing stopped. He bit his lip anxiously, trying to figure out what combination would unlock his mother’s heart.

 

“If I say you can go, you have to be on your absolute best behavior. This is a big deal-grownup-type thing to do. Do you understand?”

 

Luc looked positively solemn. “Yes, Mommy,” he whispered.

 

“Okay, you can go.” Luc yipped with glee. “Unless—“ Nikita drawled. Luc fell silent instantly.

 

“—your father disagrees.”

 

“Oh, Mommmm. Daddy never lets me. Never ever ever.” Luc began shaking his head vehemently, as if to emphasize his point.

 

Nikita permitted herself a tiny smile at hearing secondhand about Michael’s overprotective streak. She was well-acquainted with it. In fact, though she could be quite vocal about how his overprotection chafed her own well-developed sense of independence, she secretly reveled in it. For it was tangible proof of Michael’s love for her.

 

“Oh, Luc, Daddy just doesn’t want to see you in such a hurry to grow up.” It was true. Sometimes she thought that Michael savored his moments with Luc most of all, though he was careful not to favor him over the other children.

 

Luc looked at her with Michael’s eyes and her smile. “I can’t help it, Mommy. I’m just a kid,” he said with a shrug.

 

Nikita felt such love well up inside that she was afraid she would cry. But it wouldn’t be from sadness. Never that. Her children were a constant reminder of the life she and Michael left behind.

 

There could be no greater joy.

 

 

Chapter 11

 

“I said he could go, Michael.”

 

“I thought we discussed things before we made decisions.”

 

Nikita took a step back, a purely involuntary movement precipitated by the abrupt change in Michael’s mood. It wasn’t as if she thought he would hurt her. She knew he would suffer the tortures of the damned rather than subject her to the slightest pain. Nevertheless, there was something distinctly menacing about Michael’s demeanor.

 

“We do. We are.”

 

“This is *not* before. You made a unilateral decision without consulting me.”

 

“He’s not going to the moon, Michael. He wants to go on an overnight field trip with the rest of the kids. We can’t just wrap him in cotton wool and expect him to grow up without resenting us. He’d hate it. *You’d* hate it. And he’s just like you.”

 

Michael stared at her without speaking. But his eyes looked wounded.

 

“Besides, I told him that *you* had to approve as well.”

 

“Luc didn’t mention that part. He just told me that—“

 

“—I said he could go. Michael, Luc may be young, but he’s pretty good at manipulating us. *Both* of us.”

 

Michael’s hand found its way into the long pale hair that concealed the side of her face. “I’m sorry I—“

 

She grasped his fingers and kissed them. “I know, love. Just remember. We’re stronger together than we ever were apart.”

 

Michael smiled. “So who got the job of chaperoning?”

 

***

 

“I did *not* volunteer us.”

 

“Did, too.”

 

“Did not.”

 

“Did, too.”

 

“Did not.”

 

“If you say that one more time—“

 

“What’ll you do? Hit me?”

 

Declan surveyed his partner, noting his casual state of dress. Or undress, as the case actually was. “Oh, no, acushla, I have no intention of *hurting* you, but I can think of one or two ways to make you beg for mercy.” His clear grey eyes flashed knowingly mere seconds before he moved in to trail tiny kisses down the side of Sey’s face and neck.

 

“You don’t play fair.”

 

“I don’t play at all. I work damn hard at pleasing you. The least you could do is pay attention.”

 

Sey chuckled merrily, his laughter filling Declan’s ears and heart. “I do, Dec, I swear.”

 

Turning his head so that Declan’s lips grazed his mouth, Sey smiled triumphantly. “I’m sorry I’ve been such a beast. You’re such a sweetheart to put up with me when I’m like this.”

 

“Mmm…”  Suddenly Declan froze. “Did you just call me sweetheart?”

 

Sey nodded, his dark eyes lit with a special light that only Declan put there. Declan wrapped his arms around his lover’s waist, his hands automatically fisting the thin material that guarded Sey’s manhood. “Damn, it’s a good thing I taught Emmy to cook then, isn’t it? Cause we’re going to be dangerously late to breakfast.”

 

***

 

“Where are we going?” Luc asked for what seemed to be the tenth time in as many minutes.

 

“I told you, Luc. Now shut up,” Faith whined.

 

Connor glared at the girl who had been the love of his life for more years than he could remember. “That’s not the way to talk to your brother, Fee.”

 

“No,” she stuck out her tongue at Connor, “must be the way to talk to you, though.”

 

“You’re gonna regret that, Fee. Just see if you don’t.”

 

“You might think you know just what buttons to push, but I know better. I know where *your* buttons are. Don’t think I won’t use them.”

 

“You’re just saying that. You’re such a wuss, Connor.”

 

Connor’s eyes were bleak, but he stood his ground. “You’ll be sorry, Fee,” he whispered.

 

“Not today I won’t,” she said blithely.

 

Connor turned away and stared out the window. She wanted things both ways. She wanted him at her beck and call when she needed him. She wanted him to be invisible when she didn’t. He couldn’t believe he had ever let things get so out of control. Dammit, she knew how important she was to him. That’s how she got away with it. But no more. Things were going to be different. They had to be.

 

***

 

“Wow. Is this our hotel?”

 

“Yeahhhh. We get to stay here overnight?”

 

Declan glanced at Sey, who acted more like one of the kids than they did sometimes. “Aye, you’d think you’d never been in a hotel before from the look of you.”

 

Sey gazed around him in wide-eyed wonder. “Not like this one.”

 

Declan snorted. “The chateau is fancier than this.”

 

“Yeah, but this—this is different.”

 

“Why?’

 

“Cause it’s away from home? I don’t know, Dec.”

 

“Well, we’re only staying overnight. We’re heading out to the Louvre first thing in the morning, then—“

 

Adam grimaced. “I’ve seen it. Does that mean I can sleep late?”

 

Declan gave him his best Section “don’t fuck with me” look. “No. Everyone stays together. No one gets to be…alone.”

 

Jazz managed not to laugh at that admonition. “We’re not a bunch of little kids, man.”

 

“Some of us are,” Declan replied.

 

Chris held onto Emmy’s hand tenaciously. If it had been anyone else, Declan might have seen it as defiance. But Chris was not that type of boy. “Will we be able to see anything else? Or are we spending all day at the museum?”

 

“The Louvre is not like any other museum you’ve ever seen, Chris. Do *you* think you could see everything there in one day?”

 

Chris cocked his head at Declan, somehow capturing the essence of one of Michael’s blank stares.

 

You too, Chris? Declan sighed in exasperation. Taking a bunch of hormone-laden teenagers into Paris for twenty-four hours was somewhere between being cancelled and being an abeyance operative on his last mission. The only difference was the degree of certainty about dying.

 

“Do we each get our own room?” Sasha asked, clearly impressed by the fine décor.

 

Sey shook his head. “No, kiddo. Da and I have our own room, but you guys are in two bedrooms, the girls are in another.”

 

“Like  a dormitory at college? Cool.”

 

Adam almost rolled his eyes at Sasha. If he thought for one moment that Sasha was brown-nosing, he would have said something to him. But Adam knew that he wasn’t. It wasn’t in his nature. Sasha was as honest as the day ran long.

 

“It’s going to take us a little while to get checked in. But it’s already late so don’t go far and whatever you do, don’t leave the lobby.”

 

With a casual gesture, the groups of adults and adolescents separated from each other. Emmy sat down in an oversized wing chair, Chris perched on the arm protectively, apparently daring anyone to say anything about the two of them becoming more inseparable than ever. Faith chose to stand. Connor barely gave her a passing glance as he took a seat nearby. Sasha stood behind Skye and gently rubbed her shoulders, seizing the opportunity to be close to her like the rarity it was. Adam was the picture of nonchalance, indifferently posing as he sat opposite Emmy. Jazz tried to escape more obvious notice, but Adam pulled the younger teenager onto his lap. Now that was an act of daring at once more calculated and yet more artless than anything Chris might attempt. As for Luc, he was the only one of the younger children who came. Kady was deemed too young for such a trip by Madeline, and the Davenport twins were rarely out of their parents’ sight.

 

Declan crossed the lobby floor with long strides that brought him to Adam’s side in short order. Grabbing Jazz by the wrist, he literally yanked the teenager off Adam’s lap. With a daunting look aimed directly at Adam, Declan hissed, “This is not the place for a pissing contest, Adam. If you have a problem with following your father’s direction, I suggest that you take it up with him.”

 

Adam regarded the older man coolly, a restless index finger tapping at his temple the only sign that he was not as calm as he seemed. “We’re allowed to see other.”

 

“Don’t play that game with me, Adam. I’m better at it than you are.”

 

Adam muttered something under his breath. Declan counted to five before asking Adam to repeat what he said. His dark eyes snapping, Adam said fiercely, “I said, give me time.”

 

Declan shrugged. “There are far better things to aspire to than that.”

 

Adam knew Declan was right. He just hated to give in. But worse, he hated to lose. Losing sucked.

 

Sey knew without Declan saying a word that he was furious. It was his fault that Declan was forced into a role that he didn’t want to play. But perhaps a little TLC would not be remiss right around now. Make-up sex could be so hot.

 

It was going to be a long night, and it didn’t look like anyone was going to be sleeping.

 

 

 

Chapter 12—NC-17 (implied underage m/m sex)

 

“You did this on purpose, didn’t you, Declan?” Adam demanded to know.

 

“Did what?” he responded, an innocent smile wreathing his face.

 

“Put me in the same bedroom as Luc,” Adam ground out between clenched teeth.

 

“You like your half-brother, don’t you?”

 

“Of course I do!” Adam all but shouted.

 

“So what’s the problem?” Declan asked, wearing an expectant expression.

 

“I—no problem. Never mind,” Adam mumbled.

 

Declan hid a smile. There wasn’t a great deal that Adam could say about the sleeping arrangements without revealing his intentions towards Jazz. If he thought that Declan hadn’t already guessed what he was up to, Adam could think again.

 

They had a suite with several rooms. Besides the living room and kitchen/dining area, there were two bathrooms and four bedrooms. Declan and Sey planned to sleep in the master bedroom, which was admittedly on the other side of the suite. However, thanks to some judicious planning, there would be little chance for the older teenagers to get into trouble. With all three smaller bedrooms laid out in a row, Declan simply put the girls into the middle room, creating a natural barrier between Adam and Jazz. As an added precaution, however, Declan put Luc in Adam’s room, knowing that the adolescent would be hard put to sneak past the littlest Samuelle.

 

After an initial flurry of activity in the bathrooms, complete with a water fight that needed to be broken up, things settled down. By midnight, everyone was in bed except Declan and Sey. Collapsing onto the obviously expensive sofa, Declan sighed wearily. Sey lay his head on Declan’s shoulder. Glancing down at his partner, Declan asked, “Think we’ll have this much trouble with Sasha and Emmy when they get a bit older?”

 

Sey yawned and snuggled under his lover’s chin. “God, I hope not.” Declan wrapped an arm around Sey’s shoulder and rested his chin on the top of his head. “You tired?”

 

“Oh, yeah.”

 

“I should be mad at you for pushing us into this in the first place, y’know.”

 

“Yeah, but you’re not.” Sey chuckled softly and added, “And I didn’t even have to get down on my knees once.”

 

“You cheeky little  bastard. You’re just toying with me cause you know we’re both too tired to do anything.”

 

“Dec, if I ever get *that* tired, I’ll let you know.”

 

“Mmm,” Declan said, nuzzling Sey’s neck. “I’m afraid to kiss you. If I close my eyes, I might fall asleep.”

 

Sey drew back, laughing, a sleepy smile in his dark brown eyes. “Guess we’d better head to bed then. We’ve got a full day ahead, herding kids—“

 

“Cracking the whip of responsibility….”

 

“It’s tough being a role model,” Sey quipped.

 

“Aye, it is. So much easier just to love you,” Declan murmured against his mouth, kissing him tenderly. His fingers played with a strand of Sey’s long brown hair as they kissed. When they broke apart, Sey gazed up at his lover, nothing but adoration in his eyes now.

 

“Bed?”

 

Declan nodded, not trusting himself to speak over the lump that suddenly appeared in his throat. Sometimes his feelings for Sey were so intense, they defied being put into words.

 

They rose as one, holding hands as they slowly made their way through the living room, switching off lights. The room darkened behind them, there was only a sliver of light visible as they opened, then closed, the door to their bedroom.

 

Adam watched the sliver of light dwindle to nothing from his hiding place in the hall. What he wanted wasn’t anything more than what *they* had. Though how they managed to keep their hands off each other as long as they did amazed him. There was something beautiful, even transcendent, about the way Declan and Sey loved one another. Why couldn’t it be that way for him and Jazz?

 

“What are you doing?” piped the little voice beside him.

 

“Luc! What are you doing out of bed?” Adam hissed.

 

“Had to go to the bathroom. What are *you* doing?”

 

“Nothing. Go back to sleep.”

 

“’kay.”

 

The fact that Luc acquiesced so quickly should have warned Adam. But Adam was too preoccupied with finding a way to wake up Jazz without alerting the others.

 

Suddenly Chris poked his head out of the bedroom door. “Luc!” he called in a fierce whisper. “Get back in here!”

 

Adam’s head whipped around at the sound of Chris’ voice. Chris’ expression was carefully blank. Adam couldn’t tell if he was aiding the course of true love or just trying to keep his brother from getting into trouble.

 

After Luc disappeared, Adam crept past the girls’ room and stood outside the room where Jazz slept. All at once the door opened and Sasha stuck his head out. “What are you *doing*, man? Are you crazy? You’ll be grounded for—for—life!”

 

“It’d be worth it,” Adam said with real conviction.

 

“No, man, it’s not. It *feels* that way, but trust me, it’s not.”

 

“You don’t know that, Sasha. You’ve never had sex before.”

 

“That doesn’t mean I don’t get the same urges you do,” he whispered back to the older teenager.

 

“Then you understand.”

 

“I understand that if you do this, you’ll regret it. Maybe for the rest of your life.”

 

Adam sagged back against the wall, almost ready to give up. His head knew that Sasha was right. But he wasn’t thinking with his head right now and he knew it.

 

“Get Jazz for me. Please?”

 

Sasha’s eyes flickered over Adam’s face, reading the pain as well as the desire there. He closed the door. Adam could have howled with anguish, but there was nothing he could do.

 

He was just about to move away from the door when it opened again. This time it was Jazz who came over the threshold. “Adam?”

 

“Jazz…” The name was little more than breath escaping Adam’s lungs.

 

“What do you want?” Jazz whispered.

 

“What do you think? You started this. I can’t think about anything but you. It’s like I’m fucking obsessed or something.”

 

“Take a cold shower?” Jazz offered helpfully.

 

Adam shoved the younger teen against the wall and kissed him. It was an ardent kiss that left  absolutely no doubt in the minds of either one that a cold shower wouldn’t help.

 

Jazz looked slightly stunned. To have his love reciprocated was his dream. To ask him to walk away from the realization of that dream was folly.

 

Adam took Jazz by the hand as he led the way to the living room. Unwilling to risk certain discovery by turning on a light, he somehow managed to find the sofa, pulling the younger adolescent down on top of him. Adam sat back against the cushions, his legs spread, Jazz a willing captive in his lap. His hands sliding up and down Jazz’ back, he plunged his tongue inside Jazz’ mouth, his kisses no longer tender but possessive.

 

Because Jazz was wearing only a pajama top and a pair of shorts, access to his bare skin was easy, a fact that was not lost on Adam. Not even aware of what he was doing, Adam shifted so that his knee rubbed against the hardening ridge that was Jazz’ arousal. This was the closest that either of them had gotten to touching each other intimately. It was heady stuff.

 

They were dangerously close to losing control. Jazz’ harsh pants barely penetrated Adam’s conscious mind. He was lost in a sensual haze that was almost impossible to navigate.

 

“I don’t know what to do, Jazz. Tell me what to do,” he whispered.

 

Jazz sighed, Adam’s inexperience somehow ringing a warning bell in his head. He wanted to come so bad. The thought of coming at Adam’s hand made him hotter than he had ever been in his young life. He wasn’t sure he had the strength to resist. Adam’s kisses alone were like a drug that he craved, merely to exist.

 

Framing his lover’s face with both hands, Jazz kissed him hard, hoping that it would alleviate some of the strange tension filling his body, pushing him towards climax. Adam’s murmured “I love you” only made things worse. Jazz wanted to belong to him. He didn’t think he could stand it if he *didn’t*.

 

Suddenly a voice rang out in the darkness. “It’s not the loving that’s the problem, boyo. It’s the wanting.”

 

“Fuck.”

 

“Not if I can help it,” Declan commented dryly.

 

Adam was afraid that he would disgrace himself by crying. His emotions had never run so high before. With a barely audible whimper, he wrapped his arms around Jazz and buried his face against the younger boy’s neck. He felt Jazz kiss his temple. Instinctively defending his lover, Adam said softly, “This wasn’t his fault.”

 

The indistinct shape that was Declan moved closer. “I know whose fault it is, Adam, and it’s not yours either.”

 

When his eyes completely adjusted to the darkness, Declan could see how closely entwined the young couple was. Not really interested in the details, but duty-bound to find out anyway, Declan asked tersely, “Did you finish?”

 

Startled, Adam broke away from Jazz. “No! We didn’t—I mean—I never even touched his—“

 

Declan held up his hands. “I get the picture.”

 

Kneeling next to the sofa, Declan said, “Jazz, I want you to go to the bathroom and take a shower.”

 

“But I don’t need—“

 

“Take one anyway. I need to speak to Adam alone.”

 

“Okay,” Jazz agreed, reluctant to leave his lover. He didn’t want Adam to take the blame. He was just as much at fault as he was. He could have stopped him. But he wanted it. Too much.

 

Jazz trailed a hand over Adam’s knee as he stood up unsteadily. He couldn’t tell Adam he loved him. Not in front of Declan. Oh, but he wanted to.

 

After Jazz left, Adam closed his eyes, awaiting Declan’s certain reprimand. Tears threatened behind his eyelids, but he refused to let them fall. He wouldn’t show that kind of emotion in front of anyone but Jazz. He wouldn’t.

 

Declan said quietly, “You know why this can never happen again, don’t you?”

 

“Yeah,” Adam whispered.

 

“You were *this* close to fucking each other.”

 

“Don’t,” Adam protested with something akin to a sob. “It wasn’t like that.”

 

“It was *exactly* like that, Adam. If you think it wasn’t, you’re just fooling yourself. And that’s bloody dangerous.”

 

“You don’t understand,” Adam lamented. “I love him.”

 

“I do understand, boyo. Do you think I’ve never been where you are?”

 

“What’s going to happen?” Adam whispered.

 

“I don’t know. That’s for Michael to decide.”

 

“Does he have to know?” Adam was more afraid of disappointing his father than anyone else.

 

“Aye, boyo. He does.”

 

“What do you think he’ll do?”

 

“Maybe he’ll send you away to school. Maybe you can go away to college early. I’m not sure.”

 

“But I don’t want to go away. I want to be where Jazz is. Even if I can’t be with him.”

 

“But Adam, don’t you see? You gave your word and you broke it. Now I know you meant to keep it, but if you can’t even trust *yourself*, where are you?”

 

Adam couldn’t take any more. He broke down, crying silently, helplessly, and Declan, who hated to stand between two souls who seemed destined to be together, pulled the teenager into his arms. “Ssh, ssh. You’ll get through this somehow.”

 

Jazz, his hair wet from the shower and spilling all over his shoulders, wrapped his arms around himself and wept.

 

Sey, who was sorry he had rubbed the sleep from his eyes only to see this, closed his eyes.

 

 

 

Chapter 13

 

Jazz crept back to his bedroom without waiting to speak to Sey or Declan. He felt too fragile, too vulnerable to talk about what had just happened. Despite the darkness, Jazz managed to find his way into the room and then his bed. Just as he slipped between the sheets, however, the light came on.

 

Sasha stood over him, both hands on his hips, looking for all the world like a younger, more indignant version of his father. “So what happened?”

 

Jazz glanced at Connor, who was no more asleep than anyone else. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

 

Sasha noted Jazz’ red-rimmed eyes and tearful expression, immediately dropping to his knees by his bed. “Jazz, I’m your best friend, man. If you can’t tell me, who can you talk to?”

 

Jazz buried his face in his pillow with a choked cry and pulled the covers over his head. Sasha pinpointed where he thought the back of Jazz’ head would be and stroked his hair through the bed linens. “Jazz…come on, man, it’s me. Nothing could be *that* bad. Right?”

 

Reluctantly lowering the covers, Jazz stared at his best friend with tears in his eyes. “Your Da caught us—“

 

“Shit,” Sasha swore.

 

“He’s going to tell Adam’s Dad.”

 

“Oh, man.”

 

“And he—and he—“ Jazz broke down, cupping his hands over his eyes, as if he couldn’t bear the light.

 

“What? What, Jazz? You’re freaking me out here!”

 

“Adam’s Dad is probably going to send Adam away to school,” Jazz whispered.

 

“Oh, Jazz.” Sasha knew how Jazz felt. To have risked everything to love someone at last. To have that love returned. And now to face losing it.

 

“I’m sorry, Jazz,” Connor said, abruptly calling attention to the fact that Sasha and Jazz were not alone.

 

“Maybe it won’t happen,” Sasha offered with a weak smile.

 

“You know Michael. He gave us a chance, Sasha, and we blew it. Bigtime. Adam broke his word. His Dad will never forgive him for that.”

 

“So…” Sasha cleared his throat. “Did you do it? Did you guys really make love?”

 

Jazz shook his head sadly.

 

“Oh, man.” Sasha was torn between feeling compassion for his friends and disbelief that they couldn’t see how narrowly they had escaped disaster.

 

“Maybe it’s better this way.”

 

Jazz flinched as if he’d been struck, all color suddenly leaving his face. Once again burying his face in his pillow, Jazz shut his eyes tightly, the hot tears now squeezing out from underneath dark brown eyelashes.

 

Sasha stood up shakily and returned to his own bed. Sometimes there really was no way to make someone feel better.

 

***

 

Things were not much improved by morning. Breakfast was a silent affair. No one really had an appetite. Those who knew what happened understood why. Those who didn’t know sensed the unusual undercurrents swirling around the table and wisely kept their own counsel. Except for Luc.

 

“How come nobody’s talking?”

 

Faith looked daggers at her little brother. She knew it wasn’t his fault that he didn’t understand. But she really wished that he hadn’t noticed the silence. Luc was *not* one to leave things alone.

 

“Is this about Adam being up late?”

 

When there was no answer, Luc shook his shaggy brown head and continued. “Chris said Adam was going to get in trouble. But I said, uh-uh. Adam wouldn’t get yelled at just for staying up late.” Cocking his head to the side, Luc asked, “Did he, Uncle Dec?”

 

Adam set his cup of coffee down with a precision that Michael would have envied. “May I please be excused?”

 

Declan nodded.

 

Surveying the rest of the kids over his coffee cup, Sey said, “We’re going to leave for the museum in about a half hour. If you need to use the bathroom, better do it now.”

 

As if a bomb had been hurled into their midst, virtually the entire group dispersed. Luc munched happily on his cereal, oblivious to the tension that permeated the room.

 

Sey whispered to Declan, “Are you going to call Michael now?”

 

“It’s a little early.”

 

“You’re putting it off? Is that wise?”

 

Declan rubbed his forehead with two fingers. He was getting a headache. Partly from lack of sleep. Partly from lack of resolution of the problem they now faced.

 

“He cried in my arms, Sey. You could prolly count on the fingers of one hand the number of times that kid has broken down, Sey, but he cried in *my* fucking arms.”

 

“You think Michael will send him away?’

 

“I dunno what to think, acushla. I’m afraid of what’ll happen if he doesn’t. But I think…I’m even more afraid of what’ll happen if he *does*.”

 

“You don’t think Adam would—“

 

“Hurt himself? I dunno, Sey. He was so broken-hearted.”

 

“That’s it, then. Dec, you have to call Michael now.”

 

“Didn’t you hear what I just said, Sey?’

 

“Didn’t *you*? If that kid hurt himself, you would never get over it, Dec. I know you. Michael has to know. It’s his responsibility. Not *yours*.”

 

“You’re right. I know you’re right. I just—“

 

“Da! Daddy! Come quick!” Sasha shouted, interrupting Declan.

 

Declan shot to his feet and sprinted after his son, Sey close behind him. “What? What is it, Sasha? Dammit, tell me!”

 

“Jazz is gone.” Sasha pointed to Jazz’ carefully-made bed. The room was empty.

 

“He can’t be gone. How did he get past us?”

 

“I don’t know, Da.”

 

“Sasha, this is important. Did he say anything? Anything at all that might be important? Think.” Declan grasped his son by the shoulders, resisting the urge to shake the information out of him.

 

“N-not really, Da. I sw-swear.” Sasha could feel his father putting pressure on him, but there was nothing he could tell him.

 

Luc ran as fast as his little legs would carry him, stopping in front of Declan and Sasha, completely out of breath. “Uncle Dec!” he gasped.

 

“What’s wrong, Luc?” Declan imagined that the youngest Samuelle was reacting to the charged emotional atmosphere, but he was wrong.

 

“It’s Adam!”

 

Oh, God. Sey’s words came back to haunt Declan with a vengeance. Please let Adam be all right, he prayed. Please.

 

“Adam’s not in his room and…and…I can’t find him. Anywhere.”

 

Shit. He obviously wasn’t going to get what he prayed for. Would it help to ask God to keep the two of them *together*?

 

 

Section 2